


The Purpose of Posies

by bitnotgood



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-12
Updated: 2012-04-12
Packaged: 2017-11-03 12:41:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitnotgood/pseuds/bitnotgood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a boy who knew so much, Sherlock had never seen death up close. Not yet. He had seen it illustrated in scientific journals, flashed across television screens, and scrawled in the lines of books, but never before had he experienced it up close. The smell of decay burned faintly at his nose. His body hummed with an urge to leave this part of the wood and yet he couldn't manage it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Purpose of Posies

**Author's Note:**

> I was really intrigued by the way Sherlock and John would handle seeing death for the first time, and this sort of happened by accident.
> 
> Huge thank you to [owlett](owlett.tumblr.com) for being a wonderful beta.
> 
> Comments and feedback are much appreciated.

John and Sherlock stood at the edge of the woods, both peering curiously into the depths of unknown territory. To John it looked like something out of storybooks his mother read to him before he went to bed. To Sherlock it was a place to explore new things, a stop to fill his mind with even more knowledge. Sherlock liked to learn things and he liked to learn new things with John by his side.

"D'you think we should go in, Sherlock?" John piped up from beside him. 

"Of course we're going to go in. My mum won't be home for hours. And besides, we've never been here before. Think of all the things we haven't explored!"

Even at a young age John managed to always be the voice of reason. "Those are exactly the reasons we shouldn't be going in there. Don't you think it's a bit dangerous?"

Sherlock nudged John in the ribs and looked down at him with a stupidly teasing grin on his face, "Are you scared, John Watson?"

"Course I'm not! I just know that you do stupid things sometimes, that's all." John couldn't help but smirk at the way Sherlock's face wrinkled in annoyance. He felt proud whenever he could annoy Sherlock, mainly because Sherlock always seemed to get great pleasure out of annoying him. 

After a couple moments of staring both boys wound up grinning at each other. "Oh alright, let's go then." The two were off, hand in hand, Sherlock pulling John with him deeper into the forest. 

Sherlock’s eyes darted around taking in every detail that he could. To his left was that certain type of plant he had read about in one of his father's books and over on the right there was a certain purple flower that he'd never seen. There was no satisfying crunch from fallen leaves beneath their feet, the result of damp English air after several rainy days, Sherlock was grateful for that. Without the annoying crunch he could hear the sounds of birds and squirrels. His mind often had trouble processing so many sensory things at once, he was learning to sort and store more and more but the system wasn’t perfect. However, here in the fresh air everything seems clearer. He could flit from detail to detail with ease, it was heaven.

John glanced at Sherlock, he could see him quivering with excitement. He often wondered what it was like in his best friend's mind - a place where venturing into a forest was exciting because of the information it could give, not the actual adventure. In John's mind being in the forest was like a secret hideaway from the rest of the world. It was calm and peaceful but scary at the same time. In the back of John’s mind he couldn’t help but wonder if maybe the forest was like life itself, the way adults were always talking about. He pushed that thought aside preferring to just enjoy the time he had with Sherlock. 

As the two travelled deeper in the woods Sherlock would occasionally stop to point something out to John. "This is called meadowsweet, John. It's scientific name is filipendula ulmaria. I'm not exactly sure if it does anything, though," he pointed out once, quickly kneeling to get a better look at the way it had rooted into the ground.

"Sometimes things can just exist. They doesn't always have to have a purpose. Some things are meant to just look pretty," John said as he ran his fingers over the soft flowers. "My mum would be happy just having these on her table. What about yours? Sherlock? Sherlock, why haven't you said anything?"

When John looked down Sherlock was staring at him with a look of horror and shock. "There is a reason and a purpose behind everything, John." 

Sherlock's face had become so serious that John wasn't even sure how to respond and before he got the chance Sherlock had simply stormed off. John hadn't meant to upset him, he wasn’t even sure what he’d done wrong. It wasn’t his fault that he couldn't think the way Sherlock did. Sometimes he just said things that made sense to him, even if they didn't make sense to Sherlock. And to be fair Sherlock said things that didn’t make sense to him all the time and he didn’t go off in a huff. Instead of getting upset over Sherlock's reaction John plucked a flower and went after him. 

"Sherlock!" John called, his feet dragging through the damp leaves. He noticed Sherlock's figure standing between a couple of trees. He was completely still. "What're you up to?"

As soon as John reached his friend, he understood. Lying on the ground a couple of feet away from Sherlock was a dead rabbit. Its body was stiff, its eyes open, and its feet looked as though it was running. John could hear the soft buzz of a fly as it perched itself on the rabbit’s leg, "Are you okay, Sherlock?"

For a boy who knew so much, Sherlock had never seen death up close. Not yet. He had seen it illustrated in scientific journals, flashed across television screens, and scrawled in the lines of books, but never before had he experienced it up close. The smell of decay burned faintly at his nose. His body hummed with an urge to leave this part of the wood and yet he couldn't manage it. He wondered how John could be so calm at this moment. 

John sighed. "We had a cat once. It was supposed to be a present for Harry's birthday. I was the one who picked it out. At least that’s what mum told me. I really, really loved that cat. Her name was Posie; she was speckled brown with a black patch around her eye. One day I came home from school and found her under the kitchen table, not breathing or moving. Just lying there. Like this. It was her favorite spot, under the table." John took a step forward and placed the white meadowsweet flower on top of the rabbit. He knew his mum would understand.

"You okay?" John asked returning to Sherlock’s side.

Sherlock only nodded slightly, not sure what he was exactly feeling. Well, he knew he felt ashamed, embarrassed even. He knew these things. He had known about them since he was four and Mycroft sat him down for a bedtime story that turned into a far deeper discussion.

"All things come to an end, little brother. Always remember that. People will try and tell you in your future that lives end only to be carried off to another world called Heaven, but they're wrong. It's just the natural order of things, and I don't want you to be upset about it later on." At the time, Sherlock's little mind was bursting with so many new thoughts about what Mycroft could mean that he had hardly slept. As he got older and read more books it became clearer to him about what Mycroft had said. Dying was just the end of the road, just like the end of a story, or so Sherlock had thought.

But when Sherlock looked again at the rabbit, all of those previous ideas had vanished. He didn't like the stillness of the rabbit, didn't like the way it seemed purposeless just lying there on the ground. The dead rabbit seemed to go against everything Sherlock had said to John only moments before. It went against all of his more adult thoughts on the matter and pushed forward the ones a child his age should have. Small tears began to form at the corner of his eyes, blurring the ground and the rabbit. 

"This is not what I expected," Sherlock whispered to the cool forest air. He noticed, for the first time, John's warm hand wrapped around his own. He was unsure how long it had been there but was thankful all the same.

"When Posie died, my mum told me that I shouldn't be sad about death, it was something that happened all the time. She said that in a way it was beautiful. I'm not exactly sure why it's beautiful, but she told me that one day I'd understand."

Sherlock wasn't sure he'd ever really understand what was beautiful about death, not in the way that Mrs. Watson might have meant it. He wasn't sure if he could ever find beauty in something that made him feel so many different things at once. 

"I think we should go home now," Sherlock said as he turned toward the opening of the woods. He was still holding onto John's hand as they traced their steps through the trees. As they walked back John noticed that something had changed within Sherlock. The woods no longer seemed to hold his interest. His eyes seemed distant. Maybe the dead rabbit was all Sherlock really needed to learn from the woods.

When they got back to the house, Sherlock stopped John just outside of the door holding his gaze with John’s, "Thank you John. For being my best friend."

John's smile was warm and his blue eyes seemed to shine despite the cloudy day. "You don't have to thank me, Sherlock. I love being your friend." 

Sherlock paused to think about that a moment but then nodded his head in approval. "Do you want to come upstairs and see a new book I got the other day? It's about different types of chemicals and what they do." John nodded enthusiastically following Sherlock into the house and up to his room. The event of the rabbit temporarily forgotten, both boys stowing it away in the back of their minds.

~~~

Seventy years later, Sherlock thinks he finally understands the beauty in death as he stands in front of the headstone of John Watson; his best friend, the man he loved, and the man who somehow managed to love him in return. The air is cool and damp much like the day the two of them had observed that silly dead rabbit. That day was so long ago, but Sherlock can still remember every moment clearly.

He remembers the sincerity of John's voice when he tried to comfort Sherlock with the same words his mother had said to him. He remembers the warmth of John's hand against his, and he knows now, he understands.

Death meant remembering life. And the life he lived with John was the most beautiful and wonderful life he could have ever imagined for himself.


End file.
